


Hold On

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Haguenau, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: Babe followed Gene’s gaze as the Cajun glanced skyward, as if to gesture Babe’s platoon, only a floor and a stairwell away. Babe rolled his eyes. Yeah, he knew. He wasn’t an idiot. It was just that— “I don’t fuckin’ care.”A grin flickered across Gene’s face, briefly. “I know you don’t, cher.”OR: In Haguenau, Babe's hurtin' and he turns to Doc Roe for a little comfort.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> a little gift for the lovely [slightlytookish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlytookish/pseuds/slightlytookish) for the DW [in_a_peartree](https://in-a-peartree.dreamwidth.org/) exchange <33 
> 
> so, so un-beta'd, but I still hope you enjoy! happy holidays, y'all!

The next morning after the second patrol that never happened, Babe was tasked with lugging the rest of the demolition kit and the bundle of town maps back to CP. It was just after dawn, and as Babe made his way over through the debris-scatter maze of Haguenau, he saw a light frost sprinkling the riverbank and was brought back to woods and snow and hell. The young soldier swallowed hard, heaved the box higher into his arms, and carried on, pushing all thoughts to the back of his mind.

Battalion CP was stationed—like the rest of unit—in a dilapidated building that in its former life was either a pharmacy or restaurant, by the looks of it. And it was crowded that morning. Winters, Nixon, and Speirs were gathered in the far room; Winters held a steaming thermos in his grasp, Nixon a steel flask in his. Lipton was laid out on a sofa in the front room, a blanket half-draped across his body with Gene hovering over him, speaking in quiet whispers. Behind the bar top, Luz was asleep. The radioman was half-sitting, half-falling out of a chair, his big mouth all-open, his eyes all-shut. 

Frank Perconte, recently returned from a hospital, stood protectively between his sleeping friend and Babe, as if daring Babe to wake Luz upon pain of impalement. But Babe merely placed the crate atop the bar and said, “Just droppin’ these off. Tell Luz I picked ‘em out especially for him, will ya?”

Frank nodded. “Sure thing, Babe… hey, uh, I heard about Guarnere.”

“Yeah.”

The Italian hesitated. “He, uh, he gonna make it alright?”

“Yeah.” Babe repeated himself because there was nothing else to say. His unusual lack of elaboration made Frank’s frown deepen. The Italian shuffled some paperwork on the counter, then reached for the demolition kit, mumbling, “Well, I’m sorry, anyhow.” 

“Yeah…thanks, Frank.” 

Outside of CP, Babe waited for Gene. He smoked half a crushed cigarette while he waited. When the medic finally appeared—seemingly not surprised to find the redhead lingering—, Babe asked, “Doc, where ya headed?” 

“Your place,” Gene replied, smoothly in that remarkably affable way of his. “Gotta check on McClung’s foot.” 

The pair fell into step together as they exited headquarters. Silence hung in the air for a moment as the men walked, heads slightly tucked down, ears carefully—unconsciously, instinctively—tuned for the sound of incoming fire. Babe shoved his hands in his pockets to fight off the morning chill— _Still not as bad as the woods,_ he thought. _Still not as bad as Bastogne._ —and asked, “How’s Lip?” 

“He’s alright. More irritated that Captain Speirs won’t let ‘im work, than anythin’.” 

That brought a smirk to Babe’s face. “First Sergeant loves his work.” 

“Lieutenant,” Gene corrected. 

“Right.” Babe flicked his spent cigarette into a mountain of rubble by the front door of Second Platoon’s billet before he and the company’s best medic entered the decrepit house. As they climbed the stairs, Babe hollered out, “I got a special delivery! McClung! I got’cha somethin’ pretty.” 

Ramirez grinned wolfishly at the pair as they crossed the threshold onto the second-floor landing. The soldier was sprawled across the bottom left bunk, and he tossed a wink at Gene, muttering, “Prettiest thing I’ve seen all day.”

Gene played along to humor the men. “Y’all sure do know how to make a boy feel special. Where’s McClung?” 

The trooper in question popped into the room. “Somebody calling for me? Oh, hey, Doc. Still doing house calls?” 

“Looks like it.” 

While Gene tended to McClung’s foot and convened with Malarkey—though no one spoke of it, the company was well aware that Gene had begun doing regular check-ins with the boys most likely to lose it after Bastogne—, Babe busied himself. He cleaned his rifle and pistol, chewed on a bit of stale bubble gum courtesy of Popeye, and had just started rereading his last letter from home when he noticed the medic’s helmet ducking down the stairwell. 

“Hey, Gene!” Babe looped down the stairs after the other man, cornering him in the abandoned foyer. “They’re right, ya know. You’re the prettiest thing ‘round these parts.” 

Gene gave a good-natured laugh. “Gee, thanks, Edward.” 

“M’serious.” Babe stepped forward, caging the shorter man in the crevice beside the front door. Though the medic raised his eyebrows, he appeared largely unphased. His dark eyes raked over Babe’s frame, searching, cataloguing. “…you doin’ alright, Heffron?” 

_“No.”_ The admission fell from Babe’s lips, hot and heavy, Atlas’s burden shrugged from shoulders that had finally had enough. There must have been something wild and true in his eyes because Gene dropped his medicine bag unceremoniously to grip Babe by the biceps. The Cajun forced Babe to meet his gaze and ordered in that soft but unquestionable tone, “Tell me what you need, eh, cher?” 

“I need—” But Babe _couldn’t._ He slammed his eyes shut, white-hot blistering pain erupting behind his eyelids, and he felt himself falling into the medic’s arms, the redhead’s brain a tumbled mess—images and flashes of memory and fantasy both, all blood-spoilt snow and the _constant goddamn terror._ He felt it now, crawling beneath his skin, itching at every inch of him, until it pounded in his ears and behind his eyes. He thought of Jackson, dead, because of some army posturing bullshit. He thought of Compton, who’s mind got so fucked that he had to be sent off the line, thought of how his own platoon leader wasn’t too fuckin’ far behind. He thought of Bill and Joe and that stupid damn virgin kid Julian. He thought—

“…gone come back to me right now, you hear me? Edward? _Babe?_ That’s it. Right here.” 

Gene’s hands were on his face, warm despite the cool air, thumbs and fingertips pressing hard into Babe’s flesh, grounding him. As Babe gathered himself, re-centered in the moment, Gene nodded, “There you are. Ya with me?” 

“Y-yeah, Gene. M’here.” 

Babe’s hands were on the shorter man in an instant. The redhead grabbed greedily, grasping for anything and everything he could get. The lapel of his jacket, the curve of his hip, the side of his helmet, the low of his back—Babe wanted to touch every goddamn inch of Eugene Roe. “Gene, I need—want—” 

Gene sighed. “I know, Babe. I know.” _But we can’t._

Babe followed Gene’s gaze as the Cajun glanced skyward, as if to gesture Babe’s platoon, only a floor and a stairwell away. Babe rolled his eyes. Yeah, he knew. He wasn’t an idiot. It was just that— “I don’t fuckin’ care.” 

A grin flickered across Gene’s face, briefly. “I know you don’t, cher.” 

The medic’s hold on Babe’s face softened, his fingertips moving backward to slide through Babe’s hair. Gene dragged one hand down to capture and tilt Babe’s chin, and in a glorious moment, the Cajun pressed his lips to Babe’s. The kiss was fleeting. But it was also goddamn perfect. In one instant, everything Babe had been carting around inside his chest since Julian bled out in the snow was suddenly released in a single second of euphoric pleasure. Gene’s lips were chapped, but warm, and they pressed against Babe’s mouth with purpose. Gene kissed Babe like he fucking _meant it,_ and Babe could only pray he did. 

_“Gene…”_

“I know.” And then the medic was pushing Babe away with both hands, retrieving his bag, and opening the door. Before he descended the stairs and disappeared into the broken Haguenau cityscape, Gene paused and turned to Babe. “War ain’t gone last forever, Babe. You just gotta hang in there. You just gotta hold on ‘til it’s over.”

“What happens when it’s over?” Babe asked. Because he couldn’t bring himself to ask, _What happens if I can’t?_ He knew Gene understood, regardless. The gentle medic just gazed out at the frost-covered river. “Don’t know. But I intend to find out.”


End file.
